


Desaparecidos

by Schattenecho



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, And a little bit of fluff in the end, Angst and Feels, Argentine Dictatorship, Captivity, Historical, Kidnapping, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Torture, english is not my first language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenecho/pseuds/Schattenecho
Summary: From 1976 to 1983 Argentina was ruled by a cruel military Junta. In the name of the war against terrorism, the military comited horrible crimes against against humanity. 30 000 mainly young people were abducted, brought to black side prisons, tortured and murdered. Many of them were thrown in to the Rio de la Plata, alive only sedated by strong opioids. They were called the Desaparecidos, the Vanished.This is the story of two of them
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 50
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Martín felt… he didn’t know how to describe it.

The most fitting word was probably: completely dead.

His professor found it appropriate to talk for five hours straight about tunnel stabilisation and hydraulic pumping systems. His brain rotated with all the facts. It could be the lack oxygen too.

He stared blankly at his college block for a moment, waiting and somehow hoping for the sweet realise of death. The small, black letters on the paper blurred until he just saw wobbly dark-grey lines. He wasn’t dead, only extremely tired.

The only thing he could force himself to think about, were the thirty minutes he would need to go home. He just needed to get up, put his books and notes in his bag and walk out of this room. Getting up, that sounded so easy. But it was so damn hard.

“Señorito Berrote, as much as I appreciate your determination to be here and broad your mind, it’s five p.m. and I have to close the hall. So, get up and fuck off.”

His professor waited at the exit and looked at him expectantly.

“Sorry, Señor. I’m just… I’m tired.”, he got up and started putting his stuff in his bag.

“I know, you weren’t even close to your normal level of attention today. It’s more than depressing, that even in this state, you are my best student. Met to many girls last night?”

“No, not exactly.”, Martín smiled silently, while he went to the door.

No, no girls. Not his… preference.

The professor laughed:

“A handsome young man like you and you don’t spend your nights with girls? Don’t waste your youth with intelligent things. It’s way too precious and short. Trust an old man.”

“Oh, I think you would be shocked, if you knew how I spend my youth. I have my fair share of fun during the nights.” 

“I like you, Berrote. You are clever. But be careful, that you are not too clever. Being clever can be dangerous in these times.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’re clever people, and there are people with power. And there is only one thing the powerful fear: The clever ones. And now, out, the lesson is over and you have homework to do.”

Martín nodded, mumbled something like “adios” and left.

He had to take two different busses and a little walk to reach his small flat in the Barrio de Palermo. Normally he really enjoyed the walk, the familiar smell of the streets, the trees, the tiny gardens, the smell of freshly made pastries from the bakery. The joyful screams of children, playing on the sidewalks. Sometimes the humming and roaring of the motors in cars and buses.

He threw a quick glance at the newspapers, which were sold at the little shop at the corner. It was April, the 17th, 1978.

Martín realised that his birthday would be in about three weeks. Not, that he really cared. His family hadn’t talked to him in years, they wouldn’t congratulate him, even he would win a fucking Nobel Price. He would celebrate with a few friends, maybe go to a _Milonga_ and dance a few Tangos. His first dance at twenty-four. He smiled at the idea and continued his walk.

His flat was directly under the roof of a three-store building, unbearable hot during the summer, cold and damp during winter, but still, it was his own and it was directly over the bookshop he worked for. Not now, Señor Martinucci didn’t need him at a relatively quiet day like this.

He didn’t remember, how he got into his room (he guessed, he had used the stairs, but he wasn’t exactly sure). Martín carelessly threw his bag on the floor, took his shoes off and dropped on his bed.

His blood was lead, his bones were stone. His body was a single sack of heavy materials he couldn’t describe in detail. He closed his eyes, just for one second, just for now.

The inevitable sleep crept into his mind, faster than any reasonable thought. He fell asleep, completely clothed and half sitting on the edge of his bed.

A noise woke him. It reached his mind, before he was completely conscious again. The humming of a strong motor, on the street directly under his window. He opened his eyes and looked around in his dark room.

The furniture appeared as shady silhouettes, black forms on the dark canvas of the night. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the dizziness in his head. Pain pulsed in his head; he had a headache from dehydration. His limbs felt too hot and too cold at the same time, like he had fibre. His back hurt, from the strange position of the last few hours. He felt miserable to the bones.

Growling Martín got up, needed a second to find balance and walked stumblingly to the small cabinet, that was his bathroom. The cold water refreshed him and cleared his cloudy mind, enough to recognise, that the noise, that had woken him wasn’t there anymore and instead another sound had taken its place.

Heavy steps on the stairs. Definitely more than three persons, heading directly to his door. What the fuck should this be? A quick glance to the clock reassured him, that it was after four a.m. and not the time for friendly visits.

Slowly, like one would approach a dangerous animal, he paced to the door:

“ _Che!?_ Tell me, who is there?”

The steps stopped for a moment. Their owners obviously didn’t expect him to be awake. Martín waited a few seconds, before he reached out for the door-knob. A mistake. A big mistake.

The door hit him with so much force, that he stumbled back, lost his balance and hit the floor hard. His sight blurred for a moment, but he still heard the people entering his room. He heard them and in the next moment pain exploded in his chest. One of the shoes hit him directly under his rib cage.

Martín gasped and instantly curled up, protecting his head with both arms to show the smallest possible contact surface. That couldn’t protect him from another blow against his back, but whoever was the person hitting him, they hadn’t the intend to hurt him more.

“You are Martín Berrote?”, the deep, cold voice of a man, who had seen this definitely more than once.

“Yes?”, Martín lifted his arm from his face, but before he could see one of the men, somebody hit him again:

“Don’t you dare look at us. Eyes on the floor!”, another man, with a higher and more emotional voice, but still cold and brutal.

“And you study Higher Engineering and Architecture at the University of Buenos Aires?”

“Señores, I did nothing wrong. I’m just a student and noth…”

Another blow, this time it hit his head. He felt sick immediately, the urge to throw up became overwhelming.

“I asked you a question. Answer it!”

Martín had trouble to remember the question, but still managed to answer:

“Yes.”

“Well, we got the right one. Take him.”

“Wait, no!”, Martín tried to stand up, but a strong hand grabbed him by the neck and pressed his face against the floor: “Stop this, I’m innocent! This is a mistake! Don’t take me! I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent!”

“He’s a screamer. Gag him.”

“Not, don’t! This is a mistake! You mistake me with somebody else!”

But they didn’t care. One man forced him so stay on the floor and put handcuffs on his wrist, while two others gaged and blindfolded him.

“That’s how I prefer it. Quiet and still. Now, get up.”

Martín tried to get out of the grip, but it just got tighter. Blind and mute, he was damned to submission and hope. Two things he hated.

The men dragged him down the stairs. Martín considered to kick against his landlord’s door, but decided against it. Maybe these men were police and Señor Martinucci would just get into problems too. No, he would just wait until he had a chance to explain everything to somebody in charge.

“ _Ojito_ , the door.”, he was pushed outside, the cool air of the night touched his skin. Even through the blindfold he could see the flickering light of the street lanterns. He heard the opening sound of a trunk and he could guess, what would happen now. And he guessed right.


	2. Chapter 2

The trunk was narrow, so narrow, that he had to lay in an extremely uncomfortable position. He couldn’t move, the too tight handcuffs cut in his flesh. With every pothole in the road, his head hit painfully against the inner side of the trunk.

Every hit left him a bit more disorientated. In the first thirty minutes, he had tried to remember the turns the car took. But now, he couldn’t differ anymore between up and down, between left and right. He just tried to breath regularly through the nose and ignore as much of the pain as he could. Catching a single rational thought was impossible.

The ride took long, very long. Martín started asking himself if it ever would come to an end or if he would spend the rest of his live the stifling dark, until he would run out of oxygen, fall asleep and never wake up again.

Was he even in Buenos Aires anymore?

And, as they had guessed his thoughts, the engine stopped. It took a few seconds until Martín recognised it. But when he did, he tensed. He wasn’t in the condition to defend himself right now.

After the hours of darkness, even the dim light blended him. But he hadn’t time to get used to the new circumstances, because two hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the trunk. His feet had gone asleep a while ago. But the two men didn’t seem to care about it and dragged him away.

He tripped over a threshold and almost fell, but they kept pulling him forward. He recognised, that he entered a hall. And that was the only thing he had time to recognise, because the next thing he remembered was a door opening and he was thrown in the room behind it.

Without his hands to soften his fall, his shoulder, chest and arm hit the wooden floor hard. A muffled cry escaped him, while the door was thrown back into the lock.

“Oh, you have put up a fight. Don’t try it again, they are stronger than you.”, the voice was deep and sonorous, full of amusement and bitter sarcasm. The voice of an intelligent, but cold man. It had a strange accent, which Martín identified as European. Another accomplice of his kidnappers? The man in charge? Or even worse?

He would have asked, but there was still this stupid gag between his teeth.

“You are a student, right? Let me guess, a communist?”

“Mh-hmm.”

“Oh, right, you can’t talk. Yeah, life is unfair. Sit up straight, or the cuffs cut off your hands too long. And that’s a terrible thing you don’t want, considering all the inevitable terrible things, that are ahead of you.”

Whoever this guy was, he was an asshole. Sitting up straight. Martín had barely managed to get from his side to his back and this strange European talks about life and terrible things. But he still didn’t know, who the guy was. But he started to believe, that he had nothing to do with the kidnappers. 

“I could help you probably. The guards won’t show up, until evening, so my risk is just minimal.”

“Mh-mh!”

“I guess you said: Just do it, or something like that. And you know, you’re lucky, that I need somebody to talk to.”

Martín heard soft foot-steps, originating definitely from bare feet and not from shoes. It crossed his mind, that he didn’t wear shoes either. There had been not time to put them on, when they got him.

Foreign hands touched the back of his head, working on the knot. The pressure decreased, until it disappeared completely.

“There you go.”

Martín spat out the fabric. His mouth felt dry and strange and he had this terrible taste of dust on his tongue, but this was much better than before.

“ _Gracias_.”

“No problem. And now, get up a bit.”

The hands touched him again, this time helping him to sit up and crawl back, until his shoulders hit the wall. Martín leaned backs and relaxed a bit. Then he started thinking again:

“Who are you? Are you from Europe?”

“Well heard. My name is Andrés de Fonollosa. I’m from Spain. And with whom I have the pleasure to meet?”

“Martín. Martín Berrote. I’m from the _Barrio de Palermo_.”

“Nice to meet you. I would offer you my hand, but I think we both are not able to enjoy this gesture properly.”

“You’re handcuffed too? Didn’t feel like it.”

Andrés snorted:

“Just a matter of training. I’ve been here for a while.”

“Where? Where is here? Are we at a police station?”

The other laughed bitterly:

“Police station? Good joke, best I heard in a long time. No, this is the opposite of law enforcement. This is… I don’t even know a word for it. The most fitting one is probably: hell.”

“What? What the fuck should that mean?”

“It means exactly, what the word says. We aren’t dead. We are something much worse. We are vanished.”

“Vanished? No, this is a mistake. I didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody has a reason to let me disappear. I’m just a normal student.”

“Really?”, the risen eyebrow was hearable: “You are not a communist? Not Jewish? Not related in any way to any guerrilleros?

“Guerrillero? Are you stupid? Or crazy? Possibly both. I don’t know any guerrillero! I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake.”

“Even if it is one, what, well it can be… It doesn’t make a difference. They won’t let you go, as long as they think, you have information, they could use.”

“I don’t have information. At least not about communists or Jews or anybody of importance.”

“So, what? In the moment, you laid in that trunk, your destiny is chosen. You won’t leave this place. Not alive. If it helps you, I won’t survive this either.”

Martín didn’t believe a single word. This Spaniard just wanted to have a little bit fun with him. He even said, that he needed somebody to talk. But he didn’t want this interesting conversation to end so soon:

“You said, that you have been here for a while. How long?”

“If I counted correctly, and I’m pretty sure I did so, seventy-nine days.”

“Seventy-nine days. That’s… That’s long.”

“Oh, trust me, it is more than long. It’s endless.”

“And what are you doing the entire time?”

“I talk to people like you, for example.”

“No, really.”

Andrés hesitated:

“I wait, most of the times.”

Martín really wanted to know for what he was waiting, but felt, that he shouldn’t dig deeper, if he wanted this relationship to become a good one. Andrés seemed like an interesting person to spend a few hours with.

Just a few hours and everything would solve itself. He was sure.


	3. Chapter 3

Waiting.

Hours and hours of waiting.

Just sitting there, back against the wall, listening to every single noise and the own thoughts. Martín felt like he could hear time passing by. Every now and then, steps passed the door. At first, he had tensed, when he had heard them, expecting the people who had thrown him into this to come back. But the steps always passed.

Andrés hadn’t talked to him. His calm and steady breathing suggested, that he had fallen asleep.

It gave him time to think.

He had expected to meet someone in charge soon after his arrival. But now it already was late afternoon and nobody came. He still believed the whole thing to be a mistake, but until now he had gained the perception, that it hadn’t been the police. No charges were filed against him, no one took his personals or fingerprints.

Maybe…

It was that thing, he heard rumours about. People just disappearing. Stories about a secret military police, which kidnapped “subversive elements of society”; enemies of the Junta. Hadn’t a friend told him the story of a young man in his class, who went on a trip to _Bahia Blanca_ and never returned?

Not impossible. A good explanation for the circumstances and Andrés’ strange prophecies.

Footsteps approached, but Martín didn’t care, like the other times. Turned out not to be a good idea, because this time the door was actually opened.

“Berrote?”, the man who cuffed, not the one who interrogated him.

“Yes?”, he answered shyly, not knowing what to expect.

“There you are. Miraculously speaking again. And I think I know, who brought us this miracle.”

“Nobody knows the ways of the lord.”, Andrés replied neutrally, obviously not sleeping.

“ _La concha de tu puta madré,_ Fonollosa. You, Berrote, up and with me.”

“You guys aren’t really the brightest, are you? I’m still fucking cuffed and blinded.”, Martín snapped.

This was a farce. He was fine with being kidnapped and held captive for a few hours. God, even the shaky ride in the trunk was bearable. But after all that, he hadn’t the patience for more stupid commands

“Oh, someone’s getting brave.”, Martín heard the man turning: “ _Che!_ Lucas! We have a brave one! Looks like a bit of fun!”

That was not good. Martín didn’t want anybody having “fun” with him. The last time somebody said this to him, the sentence continued with the words _let’s play with the maricón._ They had beaten him so badly, that he hadn’t been able to sit without pain for days and even weeks after the incident his eye was still swollen and purple.

“Fun?”, another voice appeared, deeper, like it belonged to a very big man: “Chepé, are you kidding? That little guy? He won’t last a minute.”

“Yeah, but you know the trick: If you have one minute, make it a good one. And the boss wants answers.”

The second man, Lucas, grunted, but didn’t put up a fight anymore:

“Okay, let’s go get him.”

Martín felt fear crawling up his spine. A strange, little voice told him, that he was deep, deep in serious trouble. When the two men grabbed his upper arms, he tried to stand up by himself, but wasn’t fast enough. They didn’t wait until he stood properly, but dragged him with them.

Martín managed to get on his feet and at least stumble on his own. He heard the wooden floor groaning under his feet, his clothes rustling. He smelled dust and old plastering. The prison or whatever it was, seemed to be an old building. Quite big, maybe an abandoned villa.

They brought him to a new room. The noises told him, that it was smaller than his cell and the walls were covered with ceramic tiles. A bathroom? Probably.

“Welcome to trouble, _hijo de puta_.”, Lucas forced him to his knees.

Martín felt something cold touching at his chest. He guessed the bathtub. 

“Lucas, this an ongoing investigation. So, stop playing with the prisoners and start doing your job.”, the cold, cruel voice of the leader.

“Sorry, boss. I just wanted to scare him a bit.”

Despite the blindfold, Martín rose his head and tried to follow the conversation with his “glance”. 

“That’s not your job.”, the leader’s voice came closer to his ear: “That’s mine.”

And the next thing he knew, was a big hand, grabbing his neck and pushing his head down, until it hit the cold surface of water. He cried out in surprise, water flooded his trachea and he coughed completely out of reflex. Even more water got into his lungs, the suffocating pain in his chest imploded.

He wanted to fight against the grip, that held him in place, tried to free himself, but with his hands still tied behind his back and two people holding him, he stood no chance.

And in this moment, he realised, that they would kill him. Andrés had been right. They would force him to stay under water until he stopped breathing. And even if they would spare him now, they wouldn’t let him go, so he could talk. 

His body went limp, his muscles stopped working due to the lack of oxygen in his blood. His tormenters pulled him out of the water. Without a fully functioning system, Martín fell to the floor immediately, coughs and spasms shook his body, he spat out water. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He had bitten his tongue, but still couldn’t stop coughing.

“Who is your contact?”

Contact? Which contact? Martín was too confused and scared to answer. The water was gone, now the fear came. These men were dangerous and whatever they would take what they wanted by force.

“Who is your contact!? Talk! Or do you want to drink some more?”, Lucas kicked him in the guts and Martín cried out in pain:

“I don’t know! I have no contact!”

“No contact.”, the leader sounded disappointed: “You would be the first without one, so forgive me, that I don’t believe you. Maybe you need a little refreshment to remember.”

“No!”, Martín shook his head frenetically: “No! No! Please, don’t! You have to believe me. I don’t know anything!”

Lucas and Chepé dragged him back to the bathtub, back on his knees, back to the water:

“Please. Don’t. I’m innocent. I did nothing wrong.”

“I knew more than one person, who told me the contrary, _muchacho_.”

And they pushed him back in the water.

It took hours. Martín stopped counting how often he breathed water, how often he thought he would die now. Fear had taken over his entire reasonable thinking.

In the breaks between the drownings, the leader (he started to think of him as Se _ñ_ or Juan, because he needed a name for him) asked him about contacts and codenames, about hide-outs and people he never heard of. They wanted to know about the other students at university, about his friends, about their friends. Questions he didn’t know an answer to. At least not an answer they _wanted to hear._

 _“_ It’s enough.”, Señor Juan seemed to be tired by his unsatisfying answers: “Bring him back. And don’t forget: It’s Wednesday.”

“Of course, boss. Come on, Chepé, this maricón won’t make it.”

Martín was too weak to influence his surroundings in any way, it took his entire strength and will to stay conscious. He didn’t really feel Lucas and Chepé’s grip, when they picked him up and dragged him back to his cell. 


	4. Chapter 4

“I told you. We are in hell. Come on, I help you. You will lay better on your mat, trust me.”

Foreign hands touched him again, but not rough and forcing. Their touch was caring and gentle, when they pulled him a few steps, until he felt the fabric of a thin mattress. He rolled on his back, groaning:

“You could have warned me, _pelotudo._ ”

“I actually did. But you didn’t listen.”

“This is torture.”

“Yeah, it is. I fled Spain to avoid this bullshit, and then Franco dies and the dictatorship vanishes. Only to appear again a few years later, exactly where I’ve chosen to hide from it. Cruel irony of history.”

“What?”, his body was aching and he was still too exhausted to think straight: “Spain? Franco? What are you telling me?”

“Just the tragic and ironic life of Andrés de Fonollosa. A book, definitely worth writing, but that’s another thing this stupid Junta ruined for me.”

Martín nodded off, but Andrés gently shook his shoulder:

“Stay awake. It’s time for dinner soon and you need something to eat.”

“But I’m tired. I just want to sleep…”, Martín coughed slightly, before he dozed off again.

“No, no sleeping. Not yet. Tell me about you. You are a student, but what program?”

“Higher Engineering, specialised for underground construction and civil engineering.”

“An Engineer? Aren’t you too pretty to be a nerd?”

“You think, I’m pretty?”, Martín smiled.

“No, I try to keep you awake. But it seems to work, so I won’t stop. We’ve talked about engineering. Do you like it?”

“Yes. At the last exams I was one of the best in entire Latin America. I graduate next year.”

“I thought Higher Engineering takes twelve semesters? How old are you? Or did you skip military service?”

“I didn’t. Nobody can. Lance-Corporal Martín Berrote, 4th Company, La-Plata Pioneer Battalion, 2nd Marines Brigade. And my twenty-fourth birthday is in three weeks.”

Andrés snorted in amusement:

“You were army once; I didn’t expect that. I always thought I was good at reading people at first sight. But to be honest I can’t see you, so maybe that’s the reason.”

“I hated it. They nearly executed me for insubordination. But I was too good at being a pioneer.”, Martín grinned at the memory.

They would have talked for hours, but the door interrupted them. Andrés nearly jumped to his mat on the other side of the room, while Martín tried to straighten up a bit (not with significant success).

“Fonollosa.”, Martín recognised Chepé: “What day of the week is today?”

“How should I know? The last time I asked for a newspaper, you almost drowned me.”

“I don’t like your attitude. You don’t show respect.”

The pace was slow and intimidating, like the steps of a predator. The same pace the men had who occasionally beat him up. Martín remembered the command of Señor Juan and reacted quick:

“Wednesday. It’s Wednesday, Señor _.”_

The pace stopped and turned to him:

“Exactly. The new boy knows the rules better than you, Fonollosa. Now, up and out.”

Martín heard the Spaniard getting up, before a hand grabbed his upper arm (that became a bad habit) and dragged him outside. Not far outside, just to the hall.

“God is everywhere, but consultation is held in Buenos Aires. And now, he will listen to you, _pendejos_.”, Lucas spat on the floor.

Andrés gave him a little push and whispered: “Pray, if you don’t want to get beaten to hell. Just anything, that sounds vaguely religious.”

A crowd of voices mumbled psalms and different prayers. The first time he had a chance to guess the number of prisoners. About thirty, he guessed.

Martín had been raised in a religious household with church every Sunday and prayers before every meal. And a giant shock and many tears, when his parents caught him in bed with another boy. Anyway, he immediately felt back home, when he recited the too well-known words. A feeling, bitter and vapid.

“Louder! God can’t hear you!”

Andrés raised his voice, as did the others. Martín heard the noise of a bat hitting a human body and muffled screams.

“Enough!”, Señor Juan’s clear and cold voice cut through the prayers: “That’s enough. Back to the cells!”

Martín’s shoulders ached, but it became better with every minute. His hands weren’t cuffed behind his back anymore. Still tied up, but his shoulders weren’t as over-stretched as before. And he could move significantly better.

Andrés and he were sitting in their cell again, both of them on their mattresses, eating in silence. Their captors gave them a strange, non-descript mash, which tasted like nothing. Nobody had cared about giving them spoons. Martín had hesitated at first, but Andrés convinced him, that dignity was the last thing he had to think about now.

“Andrés, you are blind too, right?”

“Yes, why are you asking?”

“Just wanted to know. Not like I could verify any word you say…”

The rattle of the metal plate being put back on the floor:

“Of course, you can. Your hands are, let’s call it, free.”

“You have no problem, when I touch your face?”

“Why would I? I touched you before and you hadn’t a problem with it.”

“But that’s not the same…”

“If you don’t want to know, you don’t have to.”

Martín didn’t know how to react to this unexpected answer, but he wanted to know, if he could trust the only person he had to communicate with. So he got up, took a second to find his balance and crossed the room quickly.

“Try not to trip over anything. I don’t want you falling on my lap.”

“Like I did my entire life, I will try not to humiliate myself. But thanks for the warning.”

He really managed to follow the voice until his foot hit Andrés’ arm and he slowly went down to his knees. His fingers trembled a bit, when he reached out, where he assumed a face was. He flinched, when he felt a sharp collar bone instead.

“I know, you are an engineer, but basic anatomy isn’t that confusing.”

“Sorry.”

Martín felt his way up the throat. He felt soft skin next to bruises, a strange combination. He felt Andrés’ features. They were sharp and – yes, he had to admit it – pretty. Not just pretty, handsome and attractive. And the eyes… Just fabric.

Andrés was blind too. Martín let out a sigh of relief, he didn’t really know where it came from. He was just happy, that Andrés hadn’t lied to him. He returned to his place:

“Why are we even wearing them?”

“The blindfolds?”

“Yeah. I mean we could remove them easily.”, he made attempts to follow his own suggestion.

“Don’t.”, Andrés interrupted him: “If they catch you without it, you are more than a dead man. Trust me, don’t do it.”

“Do you want to know the chances are, that they enter now? They are not high.”

“Oh, that’s a game way too risky to play. Martín, I like you; I pity, that you are damned to die. Don’t remove the blindfold.”

“What will happen, that you are so scared? You provoke them the entire time, why be scared now?”

“Because if I can’t remember the day of the week, they beat me. If they catch me without blindfold, they destroy me.”

“Stop talking this cryptic non-sense. Tell me the fucking truth.”

Andrés sighed and remained silent, so long, that Martín didn’t believe he would get an answer anymore.

“I’ve seen it. Once. What they will do.”, his voice was full of old memories. Terrible memories: “It was two or three weeks after I came here. I was pretty much like you, scared and horribly naïve. They kept me in a bigger room, with four or five others. One of them, he was a guerrillero, a real one, I think his name was Guillermo. He was a rebel. Always had a big mouth, always the worst bruises. He refused to be blind. And one time, they caught him.”

The Spaniard paused and just breathed silently. Then he continued, slower and emotionless: “Lucas and the boss.”

“Señor Juan?”

“Who’s Señor Juan?”

“Nothing, just the name I gave him. You wanted to tell me about him.”

“They brought every prisoner in the house to the attic and told us to get rid of these stupid things. The attic is empty, there is only one metal bedframe. Guillermo was completely covered with purple bruises and tied to the frame. With chains. I never going to forget these chains… They electrocuted him. Not to death, to madness. It took two hours. He died one week later in horrible pain. His flesh was infected. But the worst were his screams. They weren’t human anymore. He died as a tortured animal, not like a human being. Don’t remove the blindfold.”

Martín didn’t want anymore. 


	5. Chapter 5

The nights were the worst.

Martín developed a constant cough, after the last few “sessions” some water remained in his lung and made breathing a bit difficult. He lied on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the noises outside.

They always became more hectic and mysterious than at daylight. He heard steps and stumbling, whispered commands and doors opening. Sometimes even muffled screams and silent crying.

He listened to the night, instead of sleeping, although he knew, that he needed it. He could only imagine how he looked. Probably pale and grey, like a dead body, shadows, darker than a starless night under the eyes. 

They tortured him almost every day, not just with water, but also with electricity, with blades or with sheer brutality. He needed sleep. But more importantly he needed the silent time, it was his only chance to think straight, without the constant fear of immediate pain.

The only good thing in this fucked up situation: Andrés. He was always there, when he came back, nearly unconscious and gasping for breath. The Spaniard helped him to his mat, made sure, that he would eat and drink enough. They didn’t always talk, but it wasn’t necessary. Martín enjoyed the pure presence of another friendly human.

Somebody kicked against the door, but not very forceful. He knew this kind of desperate violence didn’t came from the captors but from the prisoners themselves. A last act of rebellion, before being crushed by this giant machine of the tyranny of evil men.

Where has he been?

Yes, right. Andrés.

It was strange. He knew close to nothing about his cellmate, not why he was here, not where he came from (Spain was not very exact location), not who his family was. Martín only assumed, that he was probably political left, but he couldn’t be sure about this either. Franco’s police had all sort of unwanted people on their naughty lists.

Not something you would call close relationship. But strangely it was exactly that. He didn’t flinch or even tensed anymore, when Andrés started speaking suddenly or even touched him. He was used to the warmth of his body, the noise his grin created, the smell of his skin. They often sat next to each other, talking about art and literature and music and dancing and sometimes Martín almost forgot, that he was a prisoner.

Andrés told him about Europe and all the cities he had visited there. Martín’s favourite was Palermo. He liked the word, he always liked it, it sounded good, old, mysterious and elegant. And he didn’t know, that his _Barrio_ was named after an old Sicilian city. It had been the haven, from which his ancestors came to Buenos Aires like ten thousands of other poor Italians, looking for a better life in the then richest nation of the world.

And he liked the stories Andrés told him. About orange groves and olive trees, about old churches and antique palaces. About the Cosa Nostra and the typical Sicilian pride. Stories, which gave him the opportunity to dream, to dream away from reality.

On the other side, Martín told stories about his life in Buenos Aires. About his childhood in Ballester, a very posh _Barrio_ , where his father had been a doctor, when he came up with plans to avoid church on Sundays. About night-long _Milongas_ at the worst bars he could find. About the bitter-sweat melancholy of Tango. And about his first time kissing a boy, dancing with a man and being beaten for it.

When Andrés heard this, Martín had the strange impression, that the Spaniard was smiling. But he couldn’t confirm anything, so he was just left with even more questions about this mysterious man. 

He heard someone sobbing.

Maybe the people in the room next door. He knew that there were people, because he sometimes had listened to one of them screaming. Two days ago, he had stopped. Martín guessed that he wouldn’t start again.

“You are not sleeping, aren’t you?”, Andrés didn’t sound sleepy.

“So, what? You know I can’t.”

“Are you too scared?”

“No… not at all. In the night, they are as blind as I am. And the blind know better than to fear the blind.”

“Are you getting poetic now? Is this the beginning of a new Borges?”

“Are you scared?”

“Never. I have sworn myself, never to be scared. Life has too much to discover and enjoy to be stopped by something to trivial like fear.”

“That’s a nice way to think of life.”

“It’s the only way. Anything else doesn’t deserve to be called life.”

A cough interrupted Martín, before he could speak. He curled up into himself, trying to suppress the noise, but it didn’t become any better.

“Shhh. Don’t try to influence it. Just breath.”, Andrés’ hand suddenly laid on his shoulders. The coughs only became stronger, nearly choking: “Come on, it’s easier than it sounds. In and out. In and out.”

Martín really felt that he could breathe better and relaxed a bit.

“Very good. And now I would recommend to sleep. It’s more than late and at least you are going to have an exhausting day tomorrow.”

He heard Andrés getting up and had to think quick:

“Andrés?”

The Spaniard stopped mid motion.

“Could you… I mean, could you stay here tonight?”

“Not like I could go anywhere.”

“I mean, here. By my side. I… I am afraid I will start coughing again.”

Andrés remained silent for a few seconds, then he felt the vibration of steps walking away from him. A pile of disappointment formed in his chest. He didn’t even know that he expected Andrés to agree.

His thoughts were interrupted by new vibrations, this time coming to him.

“Andrés?”

“It would be completely irresponsible and definitely not polite to ignore such a demand. I can’t sleep directly next to you; they wouldn’t allow it. But this side of the room is as good as the other. And now, bedtime.”

Martín smiled, when he laid his head back down on the mat. 

It was the first time he didn’t have nightmares.


	6. Chapter 6

“Your contact!”

A heavy boot hit him and if Martín would’ve thrown up, if he had anything in his stomach. So, he just felt more miserable than before. But he knew, he had to answer something, to escape worse:

“I don’t know. I don’t have any. I’ve already told you.”

“And we don’t believe you, _pendejo._ ”

“Throw him in again. Lucas, is the electric generator ready?”

“Yes, boss.”

“No!”, Martín begged: “I will tell you everything I know. I swear to god, I tell you the truth! Please, have mercy.”

“Mercy is something only god can grant. And I’m not god. Chepé, your duty.”

“Alright, boss.”

Chepé tighten his grip around Martín’s arm, who hang limp and helpless in the grip. He had tried to fight back, but it always made it so much worse. It didn’t matter anyway. He hadn’t the strength to do more, than to brace himself for the pain to come.

When they brought him back, it was worse than the ever before.

The moment Andrés touched him, he clawed into his clothes with ice cold hands and started crying. The Spaniard was surprised in the first moment, but then he felt the blood running from his nose, ears and mouth, he knew what happened. After being here for 95 days he knew the signs of serious electric torture.

Martín was soaked with water and completely hypothermic. He trembled with fear and cold and couldn’t stop crying.

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”, Andrés petted his back and mumbled into his short hair: “Let it out. They’re gone. It’s okay.”

Martín didn’t stop to tremble, but the crying turned into silent sobbing. Andrés nodded reassuring:

“I got you. Here is nobody to hurt you. Just me. And I am way to exhausted by all this bullshit to do anything.”

Martín pressed his head against Andrés’ chest and the Spaniard let him, despite of the cold water. Normally the Argentine enjoyed the warmth, but now he needed it desperately, like oxygen. He needed somebody so care for him, to comfort him. And yes, he needed to cry like a child, to let it all out.

Andrés realised just yet, that they were sitting in the middle of the room. Until now, they had been lucky, that nobody opened the door.

“Martín, we have to move, before they catch us here. Can you move on your own, or do you prefer to stay here?”

“No, I’m fine. I can stand.”

“You’re not fine, but I take this as a positive answer.”, he stood up, carrying Martín carefully with him and slowly walked over to the thing, they called bed.

Martín tried to walk on his own, but it didn’t want to work as planned. His body was still too weak to support its own weight. But it had become better in the last few minutes. The trembling didn’t come from fear anymore, just from hypothermia.

“So, there we are. Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Andrés didn’t have to tell him to sit, he just fell to floor and pulled the Spaniard more or less with him. Even now, his grip didn’t become loose. He wanted this warm body, he needed it. Martín went limp, every little bit of tension disappeared from his body. He leaned against Andrés’ chest; his right temple pressed against the Spaniard’s collar bones.

“You are the unluckiest fellow I’ve ever met. What have you done to make them this angry?”

“Nothing. I did nothing. Never. I just did nothing.”

“Martín, that sounds extremely unlikely. They have to think, that you know something really, really important. Otherwise, you would be dead by now.”

“I just don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

They both turned silent. Martín didn’t have the strength to speak anymore, so he just enjoyed the calm, steady heartbeat under his ear.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

The strong but at the same time fragile music of life, the rhythm every living creature carried in it. The sign, the borderline between life and death. A little smile appeared on his face; really just a minor flinch of his facial muscles.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

Not very creative, this heart-music. But still the greatest classic of all time. His hands and face relaxed finally.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-bomm.

And without even recognising it, his heart started beating in complete harmony with the foreign rhythm. There weren’t two hearts anymore. It was one heart split in two, beating in two bodies, but still as one.

Martín had had lovers before, of course. He had friends, not many, but still. But here, in this moment, with the systems of his body collapsing under gruesome torture and daily cruelty, he felt a thing he never felt before. The feeling of complete and total peace.

In this moment he chose to give himself up.

In this moment he chose Andrés.

And with this happy and joyful thought, he fell asleep, leaning against Andrés’ chest, surrounded by his comforting smell and the music of his heart. 

Usually he could see in his dreams. And since Andrés slept by his side, he didn’t have nightmares anymore.

But this time it was different. He was still blind, but not in the prison anymore. Instead he laid on a hard, metallic surface, hands tied behind his back. He heard the unbearable loud noise of the rotor blades of a helicopter and felt a sharp breeze hitting his back. This was a helicopter flying at full speed. The obvious question was: Where was it heading?

Martín tried to find a useful clue, but found something else. He recognised Andrés’ heartbeat and breathe, directly behind him and immediately felt safe.

“Andrés? Do you know, where we are going?”

No answer. Maybe the Spaniard hadn’t heard him over the noise.

“Andrés?”, he tried again, louder: “Are you there?”

“Oh, look at these two sweethearts. The _maricón_ and the communist, what a nice couple.”, the cold, cruel voice of Señor Juan.

Martín instantly tried to hide his head between his shoulders.

“Yes, I’ve discovered this little, ridiculous romance between the two of you and really, it amuses me. Do you really think, he is into guys like you? Weak, little cowards? No, no, no. I have an eye for such things. Whatever you expect from this little relationship, it won’t happen. And do you know, why I am telling you all this? Because it doesn’t matter anymore. Ciao.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, the metal under him and the blindfold over his eyes disappeared. Sunlight blended him, a second after his eyes got used to the light and the saw the breath-taking panorama of the Rio de la Plata and the shining city under him.

Yes, under him, he was flying above it all, like he was lighter than air. 

“Andrés!”, he laughed and made a little spin, like a ballet-dancer.

Andrés wasn’t there _._ Martín heard the flagging of clothes in strong wind and looked down.

Andrés was falling, directly to the grey surface of the river. He didn’t scream, he smiled and just looked at him in a very strange way. Not fearful. Not confused. Comforting, warm, friendly.

Loving.

Martín watched in horror, as he became smaller and smaller, until he was swallowed by the muddy floods of the Rio de la Plata. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Martín, my friend, you are glowing.”, Andrés took his hand away from his forehead.

“I’m fine. Just a bit cold…”

The inevitable consequences of hours and hours spent in wet clothes and cool rooms hit late, but hard. The coughs developed into a serious pneumonia. Martín suffered from high fever, coughs and hallucinations. Cold sweat covered his neck and forehead, his body shook in fever. His head felt like it was stuffed with fog. Not extremely uncomfortable.   
No worries, no fears, no hopes. Just drifting in and out of reality. And the constant beating of Andrés’ heart, next to his ear. 

“No, you are not just cold. You are nearly deliriant and feel like you are burning.”

“Funny, you say that. Everybody laughs.”

He heard the distant laughter of a big crowd, Tango-music and the noise of feet on a dance-floor. A Milonga. The noises became louder and clearer, but also more warped. And somehow scarier. The music became dissonant, louder and bawling. The laughs turned into screams and the steps started to run. The former light and fun atmosphere turned to chaos, violence and brutality. He smelled blood, heard people scream in pain and fear, the splashing of bodies falling in water. Someone desperately cried out names, like they were looking for somebody. A deep voice, very familiar with Señor Juan’s, yelled unintelligible commands to faceless accomplices.   
Convulsions shook his body; a choked, scared whimper left his mouth. Immediately, two hands fasten their grip around his shoulder:

“Martín, stay with me. I still need someone to talk.”

Andrés’ voice disappeared in the rumbling chaos of hallucinations, it just became one of the hundreds of screaming voices, that filled his mind. 

A moment of clearness came. The screams disappeared for a second, the real world came through. 

“Andrés… Help me… I’m so cold.”, his ice-cold hands went through thin air, as they helplessly tried to find something stable to hold on to. The constant coughs had irritated his throat so much, that he spat out little drops of blood: “There are so many voices. And they all scream in pain. I can’t help them. I just can’t. Help me…”

Again, he drifted away into the diffuse world of his hallucinations, so he didn’t recognise Andrés’ arm around his neck, slowly pressing in.   
Martín’s perception turned more and more numb, his body stopped trembling and went limp, due to the lack of oxygen.

“Don’t fight. Sleep, Martín, sleep. I’ll watch.” 

Silent darkness swallowed him.

He woke up, feeling much better. He wasn’t that cold anymore and only heard things, that were really there. The first thing he realised was, that Andrés was gone. And he missed him immediately. During his time in this room, he created a bond so strong, that it felt like a part of him had gone missing. 

Martín tried to distract himself from the immediate feeling of solitude and loss. He felt warm fabric covering him. It felt like a blanket. Something he wasn’t used to after twenty   
days sleeping basically on the floor. 

That brought him to the questions: Who gave him this blanket? 

And more important: Why?

His captors definitely weren’t the kind of people, who took care of their prisoners. But there simply wasn’t anybody else. So, the second question again: Why? And, when he was thinking about whys: Why was he still here, in this room?

In the days before, they hadn’t cared about his condition, they still had dragged him to torture and hadn’t even stopped, when he had fallen into delirium and passed out. Had he slept only for a few hours? It felt definitely much longer. He had fallen asleep, he guessed, around three a.m. in the morning. But, yeah, this could be wrong very likely.   
Before he could think of even more questions, he wouldn’t find answers to anyway, the noise of the opening door interrupted him. He flinched and tensed immediately, knowing exactly what it meant. 

But nobody came to take him. He just heard the way too common noise of a body being thrown at the floor. The only odd thing was, that it wasn’t his body.  
The door closed again. Martín waited for a second, before he dared to breathe again:

“Andrés? Is that you?”

“Mhhhhh…”

Martín was immediately alerted. The Spaniard sounded exactly like him, when he came back from the torture chamber. Weak and small. He jumped to his feet and hurried to place, where he heard the drop: 

“Dios! What have they done to you?”

“I… I was the scapegoat. For you.”

“What?”

“You’ve wouldn’t survive it, so I told them to take me instead.”

“Why have you done this?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Wait, I help you.”

He nervously touched Andrés’ body to find his upper arm and he pulled his friend to their conjoined mattresses. Andrés tried to move on his own, but failed. Martín carried him, heavily breathing, to the corner. 

“Are you alright?”

The Spaniard didn’t answer.

“Andrés, talk to me. Come on, stay with me.”

“But… tired.”

“I think I have a déjà vu. Okay, obviously it’s my turn now. Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Don’t know. You told me once, you have a brother. What’s about him? Where is he?”

“I don’t know exactly. In Rosario, I think.”

“Why don’t you know exactly? I thought, you two immigrated together?”

“He is… He is underground. When I was taken, he initiated Plan Bagdad. Leave town, destroy every trace, change name and go dark.”

“You guys had a plan for situations like this? You expected this?”

“Honey, if you had to flee your home for being a left intellectual, you are prepared for everything.”

“You are a socialist?”

“God no. My brother is one. In Spain he studied higher politics, economics and history in school. He was brilliant. One day, he discovered his dad’s old books in the attic and came in contact with some illegal ideas. And when they found out about it, they arrested my parents and I took Sergio and fled to Buenos Aires.”

“His dad? I thought you were siblings?”

“Half-brothers. Sergio is the illegitimate child of my mother.”

“And what about you? You never told me about what you do for living.”

“Oh.”, Andrés smiled: “I’m a thief.”

“A thief? Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Really? Am I that predictable?”

“I just said it makes sense, not that I predicted it. What are your specialities? Art? Jewellery?”

“Gold. It always has been gold.”

“That you are in the wrong country. Buenos Aires, the city at the shores of the river of silver.”

“You are from this city. I am from Spain, the land of the golden sun.”

“The sun is the same everywhere.”

“No, no, no. You’ve never seen the golden beams of the sun at the hottest days in summer. Or the red fire, when it melts into the ocean. The sun is the same everywhere. But in Spain it’s made out of pure gold.”

“And you’ve never seen the Rio de Plata turning into pure silver at full moon nights. Or Buenos Aires’ breath of life during the nights. Or the beauty of a man’s eyes in the pale light of street lanterns.”

For one moment, Martín let himself drift off to the pictures and memories in his head. He imagined Andrés and him walking through the night, in streets lit by lanterns and the moon. And for one moment, he forgot where he was. That he was blind, that he was cuffed, that he was in a secret prison. 

The only thing, that mattered was Andrés voice, the little chuckle in it, when he talked about home, the grin, that he heard in some of his words. His heartbeat, his breath, the sharp features of his face. The bruises directly next to soft skin on his throat. Everything. 

“Martín, tell me about the future.”

“How should I know? Do I look like a fucking prophet?”

“Tell me about your future. What are your plans? Your dreams?”

“I will die in here. Why should I care about the future?”

“Because maybe, you won’t die. And this is still your attempt of keeping me awake, so better speak before I feel the unbearable urge to become unconscious.”

It was clear from his voice, that every function of his brain worked perfectly. 

“When I leave this place… I don’t know. Maybe I go to Spain. Visit Europe. See the world. I mean, maybe… I could go with you. A thief could use an engineer. By the way, why are telling me all this now?”

“Because you asked.”

“But I’m a complete stranger to you. You don’t even know how I look.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t need my eyes to trust you.”

Martín felt his grin directly in front of his face, the warm breath touched his cheek. A little tickle crawled up his spine.

“I trust you, Martín. When I die, I trust you to find my brother, to tell him about me and about a monastery in Florence, Italy. Go there with him. What you find there, it is not finished. You two are the men I trust to complete this work. Can I trust you?”

“Of course.”, he said without hesitation. 

He really, really meant it.

A church bell rang in the distance. Twelve times. 

“Martín?”, Andrés carefully pushed the sleeping body next to him.

“What’s the matter? I want to sleep.”

“Do you hear the bell? Happy birthday.”

Martín smiled:

“I wanted to go dancing.”

“I’m afraid, you have to wait for that at least one more year.”

The door crashed vociferously against the wall, when it was pushed open forcefully. Three pairs of feet entered. The whole brigade, Chepe, Lucas and Señor Juan. Martín tensed, but Andrés remained calm and restrained:

“Señores, good evening.”

Señor Juan ignored him:

“Berrotte, to the radiator.”

Martín was way too scared to disobey, so he got up and found his way to the window. He knew it was there; it was the spot, where rain poured into the room. Not now, the night was dry.

Somebody came near to him (guessing from the smell, it was Lucas), the lock of his cuffs clicked and they tied him to the radiator with both hands. 

“The blindfold too. He should see.”

A rough hand went to the back of his head. It took a few seconds; the knot hadn’t been removed for weeks. The pressure on his eyes disappeared.   
It was night, the light was dim, but he had to close his eyes immediately, because he was blinded by it. He heard Andrés getting up and Señor Juan saying something unintelligible so him.

Martín felt insecure and increasingly nervous. He couldn’t identify what was going on and he knew from experience, that not knowing was one of the most dangerous things, he could do in here. Slowly he forced himself to open his eyes. 

It was the first time he saw the room he lived in for three weeks now. It wasn’t big, not a bedroom, maybe a cabinet, but it still had a small window. Chepe and Juan stood at the door, while Lucas pulled Andrés upright. 

The Spaniard wore grey trousers, a grey shirt, neither shoes nor socks. His hair was black and curly. Martín guessed him a few years older than himself. 

“Fonollosa, move on. We don’t have the entire night.”

“Sure.”

Andrés paced to the door, the head proudly risen, like he was a general about to inspect the troops and not a prisoner. Martín felt helpless, the situation escalated faster and faster.

“Andrés. Where are you going?”, it was more than just a trace of panic in his voice. 

His friend turned around. His grin was bright and exactly like Martín imagined it. But most importantly: He didn’t wear a blindfold. In the dim light of the moon, his eyes shone like cut, black diamonds. They looked like a roaring fire of life was raging behind them, two gigantic sandstorms of black, shining glass, that only waited for their inevitable release. 

Martín’s fever increased during the last few hours. The hallucinations hadn’t come back yet, but still he trusted his perception not completely. He saw wings made out of silver light around Andrés’ arms, the wings of a bird flying free and brave over the world. The wings of a bird, made to show the world his precious feathers. A bird, that was way too beautiful to die locked away in a cage. 

Andrés’ glance lit up, when he smiled:

“Martín, don’t be afraid. Time will bring us back together, one way or another. Trust me.”

Chepe pushed him forward and he disappeared from his view, before he really realised what happened here. When it hit him, it destroyed his self-control completely. He yanked at his chains, like a wild lion; tears of rage, disbelief and fear rose to his eyes. He wanted to yell and scream and cry, but only a choked noise between whimper and sob left his mouth.

He wanted nothing more, than breaking his chains right now, just rip them apart into little pieces. He wanted to escape this cell, run to his bird and fly with him away into the sky, to be never caught again.

But the chains didn’t break.

He didn’t escape, he didn’t fly. 

Andrés didn’t come back. 

And deep down, Martín knew, that he never would.


	8. Chapter 8

Martín stood in the Parque de la Memoria. Thin winkles and lines could be seen around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Silver strands of hair had appeared in his increasingly greyish hair. The cool wind coming from the Rio de la Plata made him freeze, despite he had his black leather jacket wrapped narrowly around his body. But it wasn’t the wind, not really. It was the grey wall in front of him.

After Andrés had been taken, he stayed alone in his cell for five weeks. Five weeks in which he learned to survive on his own, without the security of a friend waiting for him. He became hard like a stone, untouchable by fear or grief or even rage. He learned to stop sobbing and crying and begging. He learned to be an empty shell.

After this time, they transferred him to a bigger room, where four other people were held captive. They all had come here only one or two weeks ago and were like little puppies, not having a clue about what was going on. He warned them about removing the blindfolds, but that was pretty much the only thing he really said to them.

After a few weeks they transferred him again, this time to a narrow isolation cell at the ESMA, the biggest centre of torture in the entire system of terror. 

There, his captors had only tortured him occasionally, not every day. Instead, they forced him to work for them. He had to sit at a small table in a stifling small room with a naked, flickering lightbulb as only source of light, blindfold off, and do the exams for young soldiers, so they would be approved at the military academy for higher officers. He was their prisoner and did their homework. But he never asked questions or even tried to disobey. He waited for his time to come.

Not only that; he worked on hundreds of files, filled with every little piece of information about young people, he never met. Every cover was labelled with a red “Classified”-stamp. His job had been to make these people disappear. Changing names, birthdates, addresses, family statuses. Hundreds of names, hundreds of erased existences. Some had photos in it, mostly mugshots from previous arrests. Every person had the same expression of fear and confusion on their faces. Some had visible bruises. Only one person hadn’t neither of those things. 

Thousands of names, which were engraved in den stone. Lines and lines of names, names and names. The names of the Vanished. He knew Andrés wasn’t on this list. He knew, because he had changed the file by himself. Martín clinched his fist around the clearly used photograph in his hand. It was a mugshot, but Andrés still looked like it was all fun to him. He smiled at the camera, like this was a picture of a summerly garden party.

Martín came here, to this exact point once every year. Every year on his birthday.

They had released him on May the first 1980, when the “Dirty War” was already fading out. He didn’t know why they had done this. Maybe because terror only works, if there is someone to tell the story. After two years in hell, they just threw him out on the street. He had been broken, confused, scared, alone, hurt. He even considered throwing himself into the Rio de la Plata.

But then he remembered the thing, that kept him alive during captivity. Andrés. He had given a promise and he wanted to fulfil it.

His search in Rosario was, let’s say, not really blessed. Sergio had been way to good at hiding to find him, especially when you were an officially disappeared, psychological and physical hurt man without a family, a job or even a safe place to sleep. But he still asked everywhere he could, visited underground conventions of students and did everything to find him. 

A silent cough shook his body. They were completely psychosomatic, but he couldn’t get rid of it. One of the many remains of torture. His wrists were covered with scars from the years he spent in handcuffs. It was still impossible for him to take a bath without getting into a state of complete panic and post-traumatic stress. At least, the nightmares only came on the really bad days. During these dreams he was always blind, always tied up, often gagged so he was completely at his captor's mercy. He would always wake up in the middle of the night, confused and scared by the dark around him, not able to speak properly. Luckily, they had become rarer over the last thirty years.

In the end, he hadn’t to look for Sergio. They met during the investigations by the Truth Committee against the main persons responsible for crimes against humanity. They both had been witnesses, Martín’s testimony was even a key evidence, because he had details about nearly every aspect of the accusation, except who’s accusation brought him there. At first, he had gone to great lengths to find it out, but after all this time it didn’t really matter to him anymore. 

Sergio hadn’t been like he imagined. A very intelligent, introvert young man, wearing almost stereotypical horn-glasses. Friendly, very polite, but he hadn’t the strange and inexplicable charism his half-brother emitted. He had a woman, Raquel, by his side, not his girlfriend, his actual spouse. She had helped hiding him, when the police had been on his track and they eventually fell in love. Raquel was great.

Martín had told him about the monastery in Italy. Sergio, Raquel and Martín found the place abandoned, but filled to the roof with planning material for the biggest heist in human history. It had taken years of planning and preparation, years in which he became one of the world’s best engineers and most notorious thieves on the planet. It had been extremely difficult and nearly didn’t work, but in the end, they left the Bank of Spain nearly with one billion Euros in gold. And it was then, when he met Mirko.

“God, you’re freezing.”

A big, muscular arm warped around his waist and pressed him against a warm even bigger body. Martín closed his eyes and hummed delighted.

He didn’t deserve a man like Mirko. Nobody did. Nobody deserved this kind, friendly, loving, caring, patient, gentle giant. To this day, Martín often couldn’t really believe, that somebody had fallen in love with the cruel, raging, self-hating, broken man he had been back then.

But Mirko had not only stayed with him, he had managed to change him into the person he was today. The calmer, more empathic, maybe even likable Martín Berrotte.

After the heist, the whole team went into hiding. Palermo and Helsinki, their fake identities they used, weren’t burned. They hadn’t to be as careful as the rest of the team and lived under relative light protection circumstances in the _Barrio de Palermo_. 

It hadn’t been easy. Before the heist Martín had travelled through Europe, worked at various countries and cities, but never stayed long enough to really live anywhere. And when Sergio (or his Alter Ego _el Professor)_ had told them to go to Argentina, Martín hadn’t been really happy about it. He hadn’t wanted to go back to the place, where his life was ripped apart.

But somehow, it all worked out in the end. They opened a bookshop, directly under their flat, more or less out of boredom. It was specialised for non-fiction about history, art, literature, engineering, architecture and music. The shop had quickly gained the reputation, that you could order any book you want and the strange, but friendly couple behind the counter would find it every time. The main reason for that: Martín’s perfectionism and connections around the world combined with Mirko’s incredible patience. 

Martín tipped his head back until he could see Mirko in the eyes:

“I love you, you know?”

“Oh really? Do have a proof?”

Martín chuckled and kissed Mirko on the chin. He couldn’t reach his lips, the height-difference between them was too big. The Serbian laughed, spun him around and gave him proper kiss. Martín smiled sadly. Mirko immediately recognised his mood, as always:

“You still miss him, right?”

“It’s been more than thirty years, nearly forty. And I still remember every single moment. I’m an old man and I still can’t forget. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t have to be sorry.”, Mirko smiled, not sad, but warm: “Nobody has to be sorry for love. Not in my world. Want to go home? Or should we stay a little longer?”

“You sound so unenthusiastic. Are you cold, teddy-bear? Mhh?”

“Says the little, freezing fox. So, we stay here?” 

“No. Let’s go home.”

With the arm around his waist he wasn’t cold anymore, when they slowly walked away from the shore and through the park. It was a cold, wet day; grey clouds hung over the world.

Martín looked up to the sky. His mind was filled with the muddy grey water of the Rio de la Plata. The endless stream, the keeper of so many secrets. The grave for so many without names or faces. The only living being in Buenos Aires, that didn’t age and didn’t remember.

In the past, in his worst phase, where he had nothing but destroying grief and burning pain, he hadn’t been able to look at the river without tears in his eyes. But now, he was another man. He had a past, but more important: He had a future.

Not a confusing likelihood. Not the big scaring monster, that only waited for him to show any sign of weakness.

He hadn’t to fear anything anymore. His life wasn’t perfect, it would never be. For that his past was too broken, too chaotic. But he didn’t want perfection. Not anymore.

Martín Berrotte hadn’t everything he wanted.

But he had everything he needed.


	9. Chapter 9

** Epilogue - Historical Background and Context **

1974 Juan Domingo Perón, the founder of the mightiest political movement in Argentine history and long-time president, died in his second term as elected president at age 78. His completely unexperienced wife and vice president Isabel Martínez de Perón took over. She and the former Secretary of Public Welfare lead the country into two years of political chaos, where the military remained the only stable institution of the state.

1976 a military _Junta_ (Spanish for “together”) lead by General Jorge Rafael Videla organised a coup de etat and took the power. They were supported by the right-wing section of Peronism, while the politically left, especially young followers of Perón founded opposition groups against the Junta, some of them armed and violent.

Against them the government started the “Dirty War”, the brutal persecution of every “subversive element” of society. Police, military, and Secret Services abducted about 30 000 people, transported them to secret camps, where they were tortured, to gain more information about supposed even more “enemies” and “guerrilleros”. If your name came up in one of these “interrogations”, your fate was definitely chosen. They made no real difference between real members of political groups and just innocent students.

The big majority of prisoners was killed after a few weeks, mainly through the brutal practice of throwing them, sedated, into the _Rio de la Plata_ from helicopters.

The rest was forced to work for their repressors, mainly in the organisation of the whole machinery, but also as mechanics or janitors. They were occasionally released, but still not free. Secret Service officers would call them on the phone, force them to show up at their former prisons and sometimes even appear at their homes, “just to check in if they’re nice”. This is the only point, where I, knowingly, didn’t write completely historically correct. I did this for dramatic causes and not for faking history.

1983 after losing the Falkland war, the Junta resigned and power went to the democratic government of Raúl Alfonsín. A Commission of Truth (CONADEP) was installed to investigate the violations of human right during the dictatorship. Their final report “ _Nunca Más_ ”, written with the help of a professional writer, is one of the most sold books in Argentina.

In the years after the dictatorship, laws were made to protect the culprits and even the Generals convicted at the big trial for violation of human rights were pardoned. Not until 2006, when the political landscape had changed, the repressors were finally persecuted, brought to trial and convicted to long prison terms. 

The consequences of the “disappearing” for the whole society were crucial. Constant fear and a nearly complete collapse of the political life were just the obvious consequences. The families of the _Desaparecidos_ (Spanish for “The Disappeared”) either were caught in a permanent gap between hope and grief, where both things were made impossible. Or, when they tried to find their loved ones, they would be sent into a kafkaesque bureaucracy at best or would disappear themselves at worst.

Some of their mothers founded the _Madrés de Plaza de Mayo_ (Mothers of the _Plaza de Mayo_ ), who demonstrate, until today, every Thursday for the return or at least knowledge about the fate of their children or even grandchildren. Also, about 500 children of _Desaparecidos_ were stolen by the government and given to the families of military or police officers. The majority of them never met their real parents.

Until the present day, people are “disappeared”. Their bodies were and probably will never be found.

_So. Here we are. At the end of the story. Feels sad to write._

_I wrote this story, because I had the urge to inform the public about a thing the majority of the world doesn’t even remember as the cruel thing it was. I know, reading the comments, that many of you didn’t know about this part of Latin-American history. Writing this story, I wanted two things: Create a piece of work to entertain people and reach their mind and hearts. And to show the cruel reality of a continent we tend not to think about that much._

_Thank you all so much for the support and love, that you have given this project._

_This may be the end of this story, but not the end of history._

Sources: “Disappeared”, by Christian Dürr, METROPOL, Berlin 2016

“A short history of Argentina”, by Sandra Carreras and Barbara Potthast, Suhrkamp, Berlin 2010

“The trace of the Vanished”, GEO Epoche 71/2015, p. 138 – p. 153

“Chronicle of an Escape”, directed by Adrián Caetano, Buenos Aires 2006 


End file.
